


The Silence of Women

by Altariel



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-07 01:18:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18400190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altariel/pseuds/Altariel
Summary: A grief too great for words.





	The Silence of Women

**The Silence of Women**

_Minas Tirith, 6 th July 3018 TA_

The day was hot, and Faramir spent it labouring at his desk. There were still letters to write from the breaking of the bridge – _I regret to inform you… I regret to inform you…_ Honours to suggest; pensions to arrange. _I regret … I regret …_ He had seen nothing of his brother whom, he assumed, would be busy with preparation for his departure in the morning. Or else who had, by now, taken himself to a tavern, to drink until the early hours, and then ride forth.

The light was fading. He put down his pen, stood, and stretched. There would be time for this after Boromir left, and before he knew his Father’s plans for him. Would he be sent to Osgiliath in Boromir’s place? Sent on some other errand? He went to stand by the window, which faced north. “ _Imladris_ ,” he murmured, and was moved again by that overwhelming urge to travel there, to see for himself which of the stories were true, and which no more than the fears and fancies of Men. Was it worth going to Father to press his case one last time? _He should be here… I am more easily spared… Please, sire, let me be the one to go… Let me see Elves before the end…_

There was nothing to be done. Father had commanded it thus, and he was bound to obey. 

* * *

He left the house. Following some instinct, he walked down a level to the sixth circle. He could, if he chose, turn to the Houses of Healing, there to sit in the great garden and look through the trees at the darkening sky, the stars gleaming silver, the rising of the moon. Not tonight. Tonight, he went the other way, to Fen Hollen, where the doorkeeper nodded him through. Soon he was walking along the silent street.

Faramir loved this place. Boromir said he was morbid, but he could not help himself. Sometimes, in the hot summer months, he would come here for peace and quiet and shade. But it was more than that. Here, the long history of their people solidified; not names in a book, or tales to be told, but hard stone. Proof that these men had lived; proof, above all, that however far it had fallen from its glory, Gondor endured and, with it, the last memory of the Land of Gift. As long as these stones stood, he thought, they were undefeated.

He came to the House of the Stewards, as familiar to him as any house of the living. The door stood slightly open. He pushed at it, and went inside. Boromir was there, sitting on the floor with his back to a cold stone table. Faramir walked through the vault towards him, footsteps echoing on stone. Their fathers lay in rows of four, their women beside them. He passed them all. _Mardil, Eradan, Herion, Belegorn… Dior, Denethor, Boromir, Cirion…_

The row now in use was almost empty. Ecthelion lay there, and his wife, and then there was a gap before the next table, beside which Boromir sat. After that came another table, and another…

“It is a strange thing,” said his brother, “to see where, if the course of your life runs smooth, you will one day lie dead. A strange thing to see too the place where a wife you do not yet know will lie.”

Faramir sat down next to him, his back against their mother’s tomb. “You are not often to be found here.”

“No. I came to light a candle…”

She had died at _mettar_ _ë_ , with the year. Ever since then, they had come on that day, the two of them, to light candles for her. The first time, six and eleven, they had crept here from their beds. Father had known, of course (Father always knew); had been waiting for their return. They expected fireworks, but he only said, “Next time, go in the day.” He never mentioned it again.

“Did you bring a candle?”

“No.”

“Nor did I.”

“So here we are.”

The stone was cold. The sweat upon his back was cooling through his shirt. He closed his eyes. “Tell me about her.”

“I’ve told you everything, over and over…” His brother sounded faintly amused.

“I know. Tell me again.”

He felt his brother shift beside him, resting his weight against him; solid, alive. “She was… lovely. She sang.”

“I remember that, I think.”

“She was… she was often sad.”

“Not always.”

“No, sometimes she laughed.”

“When?” he urged. “When did she laugh?”

“She laughed at the sight of us.”

He smiled. There it was, the thought that always made him happy. She had been sad, and they had made her laugh. He leaned against his brother’s arm. After a while, his brother said, “Have you fallen asleep?”

“No.”

“We should go.” His brother sighed. “We can’t stay here forever.”

“I suppose not.”

His brother rose, reached out his hand, and helped him to his feet. “I’m sorry I didn’t bring a candle.”

“We don’t need one to remember her.”

“It’s not as if we can forget.”

Outside, beyond the high window, they could glimpse the threaded stars. They left the vault and went out into the street. The moon had risen. They walked together through the dark. Behind them lay the house, where one day soon a fire would be lit for a grief too great for words.   

* * *

_Altariel, 8 th April 2019_


End file.
